Jersey Boy
by LondonBelow
Summary: Mark asks to meet Roger's parents. postRENT MarkRoger Ch. 13: Home sweet home.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I have and make claim to nothing.

Mark watched Roger. He saw the curve of his shoulder reflecting moonlight from beads of sweat. His hair, still damp from the shower, clung thickly. In the dark this was all Mark could see, but he knew more. He knew from the tightness in Roger's shoulders that he was awake and from the small shudder as he breathed knew that he still felt a pulse in his groin.

Mark grinned.

It had been nearly two years--long enough, certainly, to deem the relationship serious and, equally, long enough for Mark to know how to get what he wanted. This was usually fairly easy. Roger was the sort to promise the world and apologize not for his inability to deliver, but the time it took with a constant belief in the future. His dying body went unacknowledged in those moments, and he was doing well. His T-cells were up, he got out, he was happy.

This meant that Roger was more agreeable than usual. Unfortunately, what Mark wanted was one of the few things Roger would not be willing to give. He would promise any object, let Mark do whatever to his body, but this…

"Roger…" Mark's hand began on Roger's shoulder, then followed the curve of his body, coming to rest on his chest.

Roger took Mark's hand and kissed it. "Mmhmm?" he asked. _You have only to ask, whatever it is,_ he thought, but if Mark wanted to flirt Roger was not about to stop him--providing he was the flirtee, of course.

"I want to meet your parents," Mark announced.

Roger froze. "You… uh… huh?" he babbled. He rolled over to face Mark. "No, you don't, baby."

Mark laughed. It was a quiet laugh composed more of exhalation than actual amusement; there seemed no need for sound in their private world, secluded as they were beneath the covers. Each felt the pressure of the other's breath and the thump of his pulse. "Yes, I do," he said.

"No." Roger shook his head. "You don't."

"Yes, I do," Mark insisted, grinning. He reached out and rested a hand above Roger's ear, toying with his hair. "I want to know where you came from."

Roger groaned. "You know where I came from. New Jersey."

Mark laughed. "Yeah," he said, "but… I don't know your parents."

For a long while, Roger was silent. He and Mark unconsciously synchronized their breathing, so that the sounds of inhalation and exhalation magnified slowly to fill the room, pressing on their skulls. Mark's hand remained on Roger's head, but it fell still, awaiting a response.

"Neither do I," Roger said at last.

Mark climbed on top of Roger, straddling him and rubbing his shoulders. Roger gave the sigh that accompanied rolling eyes lost to the darkness--_You won't win, Mark._ "I want to meet your parents," Mark sang. Six years of living with Roger had taught him that words sung out pierced defenses much more quickly than those spoken.

Roger shook his head. "You don't need to," he sang back.

Mark pouted. His fingers roamed through Roger's hair. "I want to know you--"

Roger covered Mark's hands with his, a somewhat awkward gesture with Roger lying on his back and Mark's hands in his hair. "You know me," Roger whispered. He had had enough of song and something, Mark heard by Roger's tone, had upset him.

"But I want to know you better--"

Roger pushed himself back and sat up. Mark was now in Roger's lap, precisely what Roger had wanted. He pulled Mark into a hug, skin against skin. "No one could."

Mark drew back. Romantic nothings would not win him over, this time. "I could!"

"Please, Mark, we're perfect." Roger drew Mark in again, kissed his neck and held him tightly. "I love you, you know me--"

"I love you!"

Roger chuckled. "And I love to hear you say that!" he retorted. "You do know me, Mark, just like I know you. I gave up peanut butter for you. You understand my fear of dental floss."

"I don't understand it… I respect it."

"See, we're perfect," Roger concluded. He tried to lay down, taking Mark with him, but Mark refused.

"Are you ashamed of me?" he asked.

Roger refused to be drawn in. He asked, "Do you think that? How can you?"

"The way you act!"

_Fight fire with fire then._ "My hand in your pocket at the market? The way I kiss you and touch you? I just don't want to bring you home."

"Do you think your parents won't like me?"

"No."

"Is it because I'm Jewish?" It was a cheap shot and Mark knew that. Objecting to Jews in Jersey was like objecting to sunshine in Los Angeles.

"You know that's not why."

"Then what?"

Roger released Mark. He fell onto the bed and rolled onto his side. "What will it prove?" he asked the darkness of the room. "What will it gain you?"

"A better understanding. Or no more sex!"

Roger sulked. "Just for the weekend."

After a short, triumphant cry, Mark kissed Roger and settled beside him. "I can't wait."

TO BE CONTINUED!

Reviews are welcome-- especially constructive criticism-- though I'd rather you keep flames to yourself!


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I own nothing

Roger rested his head against the cold window, watching his breath form clouds on the glass. Houses rushed towards him and flew by, walks from which the snow had been shoveled and windows with designs drawn through a thin film of ice. Roger had not grown up in one of those houses. He had certainly lived in one, for a while, but not grown up, and now wondered what things might otherwise have been like. What would a Jersey suburbanite childhood have been like? Would he have turned to music? To drugs? Would he have HIV?

"Turn there," Roger said, pointing. "Go left." He shook his head. The drive had lost him in daydreams; now his eyes felt heavy, shoulders sore. _This is a mistake,_ Roger thought. He should never have agreed to this.

Mark paused for the stop sign, indicated and turned left. "Now a right," Roger said. "Right on… that one. Mistletoe." Again Mark turned. This street was a cul-de-sac; Mark pulled over and parked the car. "We used to live on a corner," Roger said, more matter-of-fact than nostalgic. "It's funny, that. We were on the corner, now we're in a dead end. Ironic, too." He opened the car door, grabbed their bag out of the back seat and stepped out; Mark followed.

"Which house?"

Roger pointed, then jammed his hand into his pocket. During the car ride he had forgotten the bitterness of winter. Mark noticed when Roger's shoulders curled and without a word began removing his jacket. The plaid coat was old, but it had served him faithfully and was already warm. "It's okay," Roger said. "We're here."

As they turned onto the walk, Mark put an arm around Roger. "We'll buy you a proper coat," he promised. "Soon as we get home."

"We don't have the money," Roger returned. "It's fine." They kept their voices low, as though afraid of spies in the disturbing New Jersey suburbs. There was something eerie in the way the wind whispered so loud in the trees, something unnatural to two boys from the city in not hearing a single car go by.

Mark insisted, "We'll find the money or we'll borrow."

"No! I don't want--"

Mark reached across Roger and rang the doorbell. "You need a coat," he said. "Just because you have a healthy white count doesn't mean it'll stay that way." Roger said nothing, so Mark continued, "The doctors say you're doing well, really well. If--"

Roger was saved having to answer by his mother, who opened the door and smiled enormously. "Roger!" She stepped onto the porch to embrace him. "I'm so glad you came home."

"It's just for a weekend, Mama," Roger muttered. "I only came for the weekend, then we have to get back to the city." Roger almost implied something calling them home. If Mark called in sick on Monday, he would probably be grinning to the farthest reach of hell. As for Roger, he could tend bar at any joint in town.

His mother pulled away and touched his cheek, as though uncertain. Was this her son? Was this some specter masquerading as her son? "But you're here," she said, half to herself.

"Yeah," Roger ceded. "I'm here. This is Mark," he added, realizing no one had mentioned him yet. "Mark Cohen. He's my…" world. "…boyfriend. Mark, this is my mother, Maria."

At the name Mark's eyebrows raised slightly; there was nothing in her appearance or Roger's to suggest any latin blood. But he just offered his hand and shook hers. "Hi, Mrs. Davis," he said, feeling like a ten-year-old looking for a friend to play stickball. Not that Mark knew how that felt: he had never been any good at making friends or playing sports.

Roger twitched at the name, but Maria just shook her head. "I'm Mrs. Hobbs, actually." Without offering any explanation, she said, "Well, won't you boys come in? We've already eaten but if you're hungry I can warm something up for you. Was it a bad drive from the city?"

Roger led the way into the house. "No," he said, "the turnpike was fine. We ate… you want anything, Mark?" he asked, suddenly eleven and inviting a friend in after a swim meet.

Mark shook his head. "No, thank you." He gazed around at the room: it was fairly middle-class, a sort of living room with white carpeting, a couch and chairs in varying but equally horrid shades of green. _Puce. No wonder it looks like puke_, Mark thought, remembering a comment Roger had made about a year earlier when buying new shoes. This had occurred only when there was more masking tape than canvas on the old ones.

A man stepped into the room, the epitome of middle-age in denial. He was dressed in a black three-button collared shirt and khakis, had his silver hair slicked back and gelled. "Roger," he said evenly.

"Reggie." Roger shook the man's hand. "Reggie, this is Mark. Mark, Reggie."

Mark shook Reggie's hand, though he had the feeling that Reggie was shaking his hand more than he was shaking Reggie's. He had a firm grip, though his hands were soft and sweaty. Mark imagined his father would like this man: both believed in the importance of a strong handshake. "You're… Roger's dad?" Mark asked, uncertain.

"Stepdad," Roger said. "My, uh… my stepdad." Mark had the distinct impression that Roger had intended to say something else. "Anyway, um, so Mom I'll just put our bag in my room. Come on, Mark. Wanna see my room?"

Roger did not grab Mark's arm and tug him into the hall, but his words had a parallel effect. "Come on into the kitchen when you're settled in," Maria called. "I'll just put the kettle on."

The next room was Roger's. It was cramped and looked fairly uninhabited. The bed was made up with hospital corners, the shelves lined neatly with Roger's books and songbooks. A flap of midnight cloth covered the window. From the ceiling hung a chain for a fan and under the bed was a box of what looked like Legos. Overall it was not an odd room for boy, too neat, notably around the desk. What struck Mark was the lack of definition. He expected a room like this on the glossy page of a magazine; even his room had had a few knicknacks and odd things.

"Where's all your… stuff?" Mark asked. "Your… magazines, or…"

Roger tossed his bag onto the bed. "You mean my pornos?" he asked. Before Mark could say that he had not meant magazines, Roger explained, "I never had any."

"Really?" Everyone thought of Roger as the sort to enjoy pornography.

He shook his head. "I was pretty shy to start jerking off, actually."

Mark pulled open a drawer. "Holy… did you keep every pair of jeans you ever had?" he asked.

Roger peered over Mark's shoulder. "Only since I was like eleven."

"That's… weird," Mark said. He leafed through the jeans, counting more than ten pairs. Most were worn, with holes in the knees and fraying at the bottom hem. "Not a fan of the zipper?" he asked. Every pair had a button fly.

Roger laughed. "No way. Zippers break." There was a story here and Mark itched to hear it, but before he could ask Roger said, "I'm sorry for dragging you away back there. It just got a little uncomfortable."

"It's fine. You and your stepdad weren't…" Suddenly Mark's lips had gone uncomfortably drag. He licked them as he considered the wording of his question. "Was he nice to you?" he asked.

Roger blinked. "Reggie?" he asked, and shrugged. "He was indifferent. I was fourteen by the time he started living with us. I didn't want a father."

Mark had never considered the idea of Roger without a father. He had always imagined Roger as some kind of Daddy's boy, a sports player, a fighter, good with mechanics. Roger was, despite being homosexual and unusually emotional, a man's man. "What happened to your real dad?" Mark asked.

Roger shrugged. Before he could answer, a cry from down the hall summoned them: "Boys! Come and have your tea!"

"Let's go," Roger said, at last tossing his bag onto the bed. "She'll be hurt if we don't."

TO BE CONTINUED!


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: RENT is the brainchild of Jonathan Larson (IamnotworthyIamnotworthy)

Roger

A blush crept up my neck and down my back, giving me an itch where I couldn't scratch. I slumped in my chair, letting fumes off the teacup cling to my skin. I glanced around the kitchen. There was nothing there ingrained into my mind. I had not played _here_ as a child, burnt my hand with _this_ soup pot, once puked into _that_ sink. I had no memories in the room, only memories of the room.

I drank my tea and tried to ignore the conversation my mother was having. I had never worried that she would disapprove of Mark. If she did, what did I care? She could not exactly kick me out. As for disowning me, how could she? We no longer even used the same name.

_"Hi, you've reached Bohemia, Cohen-Collins-Davis-Johnson residence--"_

_"Hey, that sounds kinda funny, Thomas--"_

_"Shut up!"_

_BEEEP!_

_"Roger… Roger? Are you there? This is your mother. Roger, why are you using that name?"_

_Collins looked up from his cereal to give me a curious look. I growled, stood, and unplugged the answering machine. When I sat down again, Collins said nothing, and that was that._

But what I could not have prepared myself for, much as I disregarded my mother's disapproval, was her pleasure. She had decided almost at once that she liked Mark, and now sat with him at the end of the table looking through photo albums and telling humiliating stories about things I had done in my youth.

"Look," she said, pointing to a picture, "here's Roger, he's fifteen… maybe the oldest I have a photo of. He was attached to that guitar, playing just constantly. He would lock himself in the bathroom so no one could interrupt him; I think once we had to take the door off its hinges!" she concluded, laughing.

Mark joined in. "I was thirteen," I muttered. I was thirteen, terrified. The moment flashes to mind, the way my limbs no longer seemed the shapes they had been, nerves responding in strange ways, my heart racing. I was crying. She returned from a business trip the following day; that was when the door came down.

Maria looked at her son. Me. How did the two separate? "What's that, dear?"

I cleared my throat. "You took the door of its hinges when I was thirteen, Mama," I reminded her. There was a foul note in my voice, something sharp that raised a small shiver from Mark.

Maria nodded. "That's right. I forget…" She turned a page in the album. "You know, Mark, I'm sure I can find you a picture of Roger smiling--I'm not certain he does that anymore." I gritted my teeth as Mark chuckled. Why was she doing this to me? "Here we go."

The picture showed me, a complete mess. My clothes were covered in dirt, my hair sweated against my head where my hat had been. Someone was cleaning a wicked scratch on my cheek. I was grinning. I was, undeniably, a cute kid--all gold and tan and those pale lips and green eyes, smiling like the world had just begun. No wonder I sought glory--I was capable of attaining it. That was my limitation. I was not struggling to push the boundaries but to become everything I had inside me.

It's easy to own the world of the moment. Maybe you just beat your record at the track, maybe you're laughing so hard you wheeze and gasp, maybe you're playing for a crowd and they're cheering you on, maybe you just looked up and realized that the world is beautiful. And suddenly everything is good and everything is yours. I remember feeling that, in my youth.

"Baseball?" Mark asked. The white pants and shimmering green shirt were an interesting fashion statement otherwise.

"Mmhmm. Roger was good at sports--baseball, soccer, you name it."

Mark glanced at me, giving a silly grin, but I was just glaring at the table. I sighed, dunked a biscuit into my tea and decapitated it. "You know, I'm beat," I said. "I think I'll just go to bed--"

"Me, too," Mark said, standing as I did.

"You don't have to," I muttered. I did not realize that I was rejecting him until a cold thought popped into my head: _You can stay and let my mother tell more embarrassing stories._

---

Mark

When I returned from the bathroom, I found Roger stripping back the bedsheets. "Do you want to be near the wall or the outside edge?" Roger asked. He kept his eyes down, smoothing the already smooth sheets. Had he ever spoken so gruffly under different circumstances, I might have taken offense. He didn't need to snap at me. I did not know what had upset him, as I saw nothing wrong with what had happened.

"I don't care. Whatever makes you comfortable," I said. It seemed the entire house made Roger uncomfortable; if he preferred one side of the bed to the other, I was glad to surrender it.

Mrs. Hobbs knocked on the open door. "Mark," she said. "We can set the couch up if you like."

Roger gritted his teeth. He had told his mother in advance that he planned to bring over a friend, not just a friend but a boyfriend. _"We're in a relationship, romantically and sexually. You're okay with that, Mama?"_ She had promised she was, as he now reminded her.

"I know that, honey," Mrs. Hobbs said, "I just wanted him to know his options." She turned to me and said, smiling as though sharing a joke, "I'm very impressed with you, Mark, dear, sharing with our little bed-wetter."

A rush of blood painted Roger's face bright red. His shoulders stiffened, and his jaw clenched. Something in his eyes had gone hard, almost cruelly detached. "Everyone has accidents, Mrs. Hobbs," I said, siding as kindly as possible with Roger. "I had my share, too, when I was little."

"I wouldn't have said Roger was _little_--"

He interrupted, "You know what?" His mother and I both turned to him. There were times, mostly when Roger more controlled by drugs than he was by himself, that I feared Roger. He was stronger than me and senseless. Standing there in his childhood bedroom, looking at the suddenly cold eyes of the man I loved, I felt my throat tighten. I was terrified of what Roger could do.

All he did do was thrust a pillow into my hands. "I'll sleep on the couch," he said quickly. He turned away without seeing me and brushed past his mother.

A part of me wanted to go after him, but Mrs. Hobbs said, "Well, then, you can have the bed to yourself. He'll be all right in the morning." And I nodded, because I wanted so badly to believe it.

TO BE CONTINUED!

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	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: RENT is the brainchild of Jonathan Larson (may he rest in peace)

MARK

I snuggled deeper into Roger's bed, trying to detect his scent in the sheets. I pulled the quilt up over my face and breathed it in. It smelled of detergent, nothing more. I wriggled deeper and twisted onto my side to smell the mattress. It smelled of age and dust, and perhaps a hint of urine, but nothing of the Roger I knew.

I sighed. I wanted Roger. It was not that I wanted to have sex with him, but I wanted him near me. I missed his breathing. I missed his solid warmth in my arms, his arms around me, the feel of his hair and the smell of his sweat. Without him, the bed was cold and big, in the way a child thinks of anything too large as a space in which to drown.

I pushed back the covers. Sleep was out of the question. Out the window, I saw the peace of nighttime in the suburbs. Snow glittered ghostly silver-grey in the moonlight; houses sat quiet, family drama hidden behind that extra coat of paint. A figure appeared in the picture, shadowy, carrying something bulky and moving slowly, shaking. After a moment I realized that the figure came from this house, and the figure was Roger.

"Shit!"

Where was he going? Was he leaving, leaving me here? I pulled on my glasses and sneakers. Instead of digging through our bag for a sweater, I pulled the quilt off his bed and wrapped it around my shoulders, then hurried out of the room. The house was different in the dark, more stubbed toes and secrets lurking in shadows. I past them by and burst out into the night, shivered by the cold air.

Roger was nowhere to be seen, but there was shadowy movement in the car. My heart jumped. _Leaving_? Surely he wasn't, wouldn't. My shoes grew heavier as I approached the car, but lightened as I saw that Roger had not intended to drive. He had folded down the second seat and curled up in the space, shivering under his blanket.

I knocked on the window. "Roger?" He squinted at me, then leaned over and unlocked the door.

I opened the door. "Can I sit with you?" I whispered. He nodded. I climbed into the car and sat on the folded seat, slipped off my sneakers. My foot slid along the edge of Roger's boot as I pulled my feet up. I wriggled under his blanket and covered us with my quilt as best I could.

Before I could swallow my worry that Roger, an HIV-positive man, was shivering in a car in the Jersey winter, he said my name. Only the name--"Mark--" and it died on his lips, as though he lost his courage.

"I'm here." I pulled Roger into my arms.

"What my mom said…"

"I don't care."

"It wasn't like that…"

I tightened my grip, bringing Roger's body against mine. "I don't care," I repeated, bringing my teeth together hard between each word. Roger sounded too young. He was too light. I didn't like what was happening and wanted to leave, but how could I ask? I manipulated him into bringing me here. I wasn't about to manipulate him into leaving before he was ready. "Roger, all kids wet the bed. I wet the bed when I was a kid, Maureen wet the bed when she was a kid, Collins--"

"Collins probably potty-trained himself," Roger mumbled. "Then rebelled against conformity and exploded a toilet."

"And Maureen probably pissed the bed for attention," I added, playing along. "And Joanne probably had trouble." Roger giggled. I felt his breath on my chest and smiled. "Yeah, she had trouble. She's probably so tidy now because she remembers. No one embarrassed her, she put that on herself. And I…" Did I remember a thing about potty training? "I… don't remember much," I admitted. "I was private. My mom says that when I was a baby, I didn't cry, just fussed about a soiled diaper but I _screamed_ if she tried to change me in a public restroom."

Perhaps it should have felt strange to lie in the back of a car and talk about toilet-training with the person I would spend the rest of my life with. When we looked back and talked about it, _That night we talked about pee_ was what we said. "I peed my name in the snow once. That's not that weird, all kids do that--"

"I didn't."

"Really?"

Roger said nothing. Somehow, I had said something to upset him again, I supposed. He rolled away, out of my arms, to face the door. "Hey," I said, trying to keep him from growing agitated. I was worried about him, lying practically outside on a cold night, though I was warm enough to sweat. I wriggled nearer and stroked his hip. "You mad at me?" I asked, flirting. He said nothing. "Hm?"

My fingers sought his waistband. I had assumed Roger would wear sweats to bed like he did at home, but I found now that he had elected jeans instead. When I began to unfasten Roger's belt, he grabbed my wrist. "Don't," he said.

I nodded. Did he realize how tightly he had grasped my wrist? "Okay."

"Just don't."

"I won't, baby. I won't. Please let go, Roger, you're hurting me." He released me, and I pulled my hand back. "Roger?" I asked, hardly whispering. "Did someone…" I swallowed. It was not a question I wanted to ask, not one I wanted answered, as though if I said nothing the topic would disappear. "Did someone... did your stepfathermess with you, when you were a kid?"

"No," Roger mumbled, "nothing like that."

"Oh. Well… good."

"They didn't touch me at all, for a while," he added.

"Hm? Who didn't, baby?"

Roger shrugged. "My mom. Her boyfriend. I was on my own a lot and… I just don't… feel comfortable with that right now. I'm sorry I hurt you, Mark."

"It's all right." It wasn't, but why should I say anything? Something was wrong with Roger, something in his brain not connected, a pathway shut down, a gap. If he hurt me again, I would do something; if it was serious, I would leave him. But if the worst he did to me was hold my wrist a little too tightly, I saw no need for fuss. "Do you want to go back inside? You can sleep in your bed…"

"No."

"Okay." I tried to curl into myself for warmth. The air was cold, and Roger was broken. I shivered.

Roger rolled over and, without a word, hugged me. "Mm…" I needed that. "Rog--"

"Just go to sleep," he said. "Tomorrow will be better, I promise."

"Sing to me," I said.

"Um… esas son las mañanitas que cantaba el rey David…"

I fell asleep well before the song ended.

To be continued!


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I don't own RENT. and we all know that.

"Come on." Roger held the door open for Mark to bolt through, then closed and locked it. He pulled his feet out of his boots and stripped off his socks. "You hungry?"

Mark nodded. There had been a small send-off at the Life the previous evening and Mrs. Hobbs' tea, but Mark needed something substantial to eat. He glanced at his eternally gaunt boyfriend and decided that Roger, too, needed something substantial to eat.

"C'mon." Roger jerked his head in the direction of the kitchen and disappeared. Mark followed him.

"What are we having?" he asked.

Roger had the refrigerator open and was half-buried in it. "Everything was can," he muttered. He emerged from the refrigerator carrying a loaf of bread, a carton of eggs, ketchup, mushrooms, tomatoes, lettuce and bacon. Mark muttered a quiet exclamation as Roger kicked the door closed and carried the food over to the cutting board. The first thing Roger did was make four slices of toast.

"This might take a while," Roger warned. "You can have something now if you want--"

"I can wait. Do you need any help?"

Roger paused. He glanced at Mark, giving him a tired, affectionate sort of look, then strode forward quickly and kissed Mark hard across the mouth. "Mmm…" Mark moaned as his eyes closed.

When he pulled away, Roger found himself slightly short of breath. "Do you think you can just hang out, out of the way? I want you to stay," he added quickly, "I'm just not used to cooking with anyone else."

Mark nodded. "Okay," he said. He pressed his palms flat against the counter and leapt up. Roger took out a frying pan. He set it on the stove over a blue flame and forked strips of bacon into the pan, glad for Mark's 'delicious before kosher' rule.

"What do you want on yours?" he asked.

Mark, who had been watching the surprising fluidity of Roger's motions, blinked. "Um… I don't care. Whatever you're having." He hadn't the faintest idea what Roger was making.

"'Kay." Roger spread ketchup on two slices of bread and mayonnaise on the remaining two, then returned the ketchup, mayonnaise and bacon to the refrigerator. There was a look of distracted concentration to his face, as though his body carried out familiar gestures as his mind puzzled out some distant mystery.

A high electronic beeping made him jump. "Take your AZT," Mark said.

Roger took the pills with a slug of juice straight from the bottle. He offered it to Mark, who shook his head. Roger shrugged. He lined vegetables on the ketchupy bread, except the mushrooms, which he sliced and left out. "I'm sorry," he said suddenly.

"Hm? Why?" Mark asked.

Roger shrugged. "I guess you wanted a… little house, garden, loving parents. Someone to hug us and tell us that… they love me and you're welcome and… we're family. To make it okay." He turned to Mark and elaborated, "To be gay."

Mark shook his head. Numbness flooded his veins. "That's not what I wanted, Roger." _How can you think that? It is okay! I've been out longer than you… _Mark shook the stream of thoughts from his head. The worst, the thought he dared not think, was that Roger completely misunderstood the Cohens. No, they did not agree with his sexual orientation, but they loved their son. Nothing more mattered.

"Oh." Roger forked the bacon onto a paper towel. He cracked two eggs into the hot liquid fat in the frying pan and tossed the mushrooms in with them. The mushrooms sizzled and spat as they cooked. Roger flipped the eggs without breaking either yolk. He set the bacon on atop the vegetables and speared one of the mushrooms. He bit into it carefully, his lips pulled away from his teeth to avoid being burned. Satisfied, Roger piled the fried mushrooms and eggs on top of the bacon and at last finished the sandwiches.

He slid them onto plates and handed one to Mark. "Here. Come on, we can eat outside."

There was a swing on the back porch. Roger avoided it, sitting instead on the concrete steps. Mark sat beside him and eyed his sandwich suspiciously. He had never been presented with anything like this before, never even _heard_ of fried mushrooms, but Roger bit into his so Mark did likewise. Flavors burst in his mouth, sharpness and sweetness, something smoky and something damp, salt, heat and coolness and creamy and sharp. Juices dribbled down his chin.

Roger chuckled. "Here." He wiped Mark's chin with a paper napkin. "I'm sorry I said that, back there. It's kind of what I wished my family was like, what I wanted to give you. Something to belong to."

Mark felt his eyes widen as his body stiffened. _How could you think that? How can you say that about my family?_ But as Roger returned to his sandwich, eyes carefully, Mark realized: Roger wasn't saying it about Mark's family, but about his own.

Mark leaned over and kissed Roger's cheek. "It's okay," he said.

"I really am sorry--"

"No. It's okay," Mark repeated emphatically, wishing he could make Roger understand, but there was no comprehension in his face, just searching eyes and a confused frown. "Being gay," Mark added. "Or bi." _Whatever you are._ "You know that."

Roger nodded. "Yeah," he said. "How's the sandwich?"

"It's good." _Why did you just do that, Roger? Why couldn't you have just let me be enough?_

The boys continued to munch in fair solitude. The patch of a yard was pleasant enough, crystalline snowdrifts no one had used to build a fort that were now piled deep and dangerous-- not too dangerous, only enough to frighten mothers and excite children.

Mrs. Hobbs emerged onto the porch. "Oh!" she said. "Sorry to interrupt--"

"You're not," the boys chorused. "I thought you'd be working," Roger added.

His mother shook her head and sat opposite Mark. "Not today, honey. It's Saturday."

Roger nodded. "You used to work on Saturdays," he reminded her. "'Getting ahead.' 'Climbing the ladder.'" He took a bite of breakfast, chewed, swallowed and licked a dribble of egg yolk from his chin.

"So, how long have you two been together?" Mrs. Hobbs asked.

Mark and Roger traded glances. It was a difficult question to answer. They had been together, literally, as roommates for going on six years, and even then 'marknroger' was a single entity. But how long had they been kissing and touching and using pet names? "About two years," Roger told his mother. He glanced at Mark's hand, pressed to the edge of the step, and covered it with his own.

"Roger, honey? You really love this boy, don't you?"

Roger nodded. "Yes, I love him," he said. Mrs. Hobbs nodded. Before she had a chance to speak, Roger asked, "So, what are you doing today?" He jammed the last of his sandwich into his mouth and sucked yolk from his fingertips.

"Absolutely nothing, honey. It's not often I get a visit from my son, you know."

Roger nodded again. "Mark and I need to get cleaned up," he said. "Right, Mark?"

"Uh…"

"Yeah," Roger said for him. "Come on. I'll do the dishes. Mark, if you want to use the shower…" He trailed off. 'The hot water won't run out,' he wanted to say, but the last thing he needed was a worried mother. He still waited for her to bring up the Biblical wrongness of homosexuality.

While Mark was in the shower and Roger drying the dishes, Mrs. Hobbs said, "So, when I last heard from you, you were with a girl. Annie or Amy--"

"April," Roger interrupted. He clenched his jaw. April. Outside the clouds threatened rain. "She… we… it didn't work," he said.

"So you turned to boys?" Mrs. Hobbs asked.

Roger shook his head. "No. After April I was with another woman, Mimi, and that didn't exactly work out either."

_Mark's voice echoed through the loft, desolate, afraid: "Roger?" Mark's hand touched Roger's, fingers petting fingers, racing through dirty hair. "I thought you were going to leave the loft today. Well… maybe tomorrow, ok, Roger? We'll… go down to the aquarium. You always liked it there, remember? We'll go tomorrow. My treat." Mark chuckled weakly. Roger had no income, so nearly everything lately had been Mark's treat. "Well… good night." Mark's lips ghosted against Roger's cheek._

_"Don't leave, Mark. Don't leave me cold."_

"And yes, after the two of them, I began dating Mark." He itched at the term 'began dating', but could think of no other way to describe it, at least not to his mother.

_Roger always hated sleeping alone. The warmth just wasn't warm. He forgot how to breathe._

_Roger sighed and wandered across the loft. He did not pause to knock, but stepped into Mark's room and crept over to his bed. "Mark?" he whispered._

_Mark groaned. He lifted the covers for Roger. "You don't have to ask," he murmured._

_"Thank you."_

_Roger crawled into bed beside Mark, as he had so many nights the past few weeks, and immediately relaxed. In moments he was asleep. And if, in the morning, the boys awoke in a half-hugging tangle of arms and legs, neither raised an objection._

_So they began sleeping together before they began dating. The progression was slow, but slowly the question faded, and regardless of who retired first to bed, he headed for Mark's room. As the weather grew colder, Roger's blankets migrated into Mark's bedroom. The question of touching had long since melted away, but with the frigid air sleeping in one another's arms was accepted. _

_Even then, it was for warmth._

_Then there was one night as Christmas approached, when Roger had had a little too much to drink and Mark was trying to persuade his roommate into bed. "Just try to sleep, okay?" Mark said as he unbuttoned Roger's shirt. His fingers were trembling from a mix of cold and worry, and when Roger took his hand gently, Mark did not object, not until he realized what Roger wanted._

_Mark froze, his hand down the front of Roger's boxers. "Rog--"_

_"Shh." Roger kissed Mark, and they completely forgot about the third roommate asleep across the loft._

_The following morning, lying in their private world beneath the covers, Mark asked, "Roger, was last night… did it mean anything to you?"_

_Roger nodded. "Yes. To you?"_

_"Yes."_

_Roger grinned. He pulled Mark closer against him. "Be my boyfriend?" he asked, and what else was there to say?_

"And are you still with that band?" Mrs. Hobbs asked.

Roger paused. Had she not heard him? Was she simply denying it? "Mom-- I'm gay," he said. "Doesn't that bother you?"

His mother shrugged. "Not as much as this," she said, touching his side over his ribs. Roger squirmed, half because he was ticklish there. "You don't eat enough."

TO BE CONTINUED

Roger's song last chapter was "Las Mañanitas".

Finals are over, so I should be updating more often now.

Reviews would be awesome!


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: RENT is Jonathan Larson's . I'm just playing with the characters.

Roger had not visited his mother's house in years, not since being home meant being locked up in his room (a self-induced condition; keeping his parents locked out) with his notebooks and his tapes. Even then he had hated it. Even then he only remained because there was a certain degree of comfort in being miserable. He kept the windows open and let the cold in.

Roger perched on his bed as Mark went through his drawers, squelching the urge to tell Mark to get out. He loved Mark. He knew that. He repeated it to himself as a mantra: I love Mark, I love Mark, I love Mark… And he knew Mark, and Mark knew him. They slept together without sex, they touched and caressed and kissed. They truly were in love.

Why then did Roger feel that it was a complete stranger pawing through his clothing?

Mark turned, grinning. "Is there any sport you _didn't_ play?" he asked.

Roger swallowed a wave of anger. "I did play a lot of sports," he forced himself to say.

Mark turned back to the drawer and leafed through jerseys. "Basketball, baseball… maybe soccer?" He held one of the jerseys up to his chest. It was a bit big for him.

Roger sighed. He hopped off the bed. "Basketball, baseball, and soccer," he said, pointing, "and swimming and track."

He tried to shut the drawer, but Mark held it open. "So you really were a jersey boy," he said, then smiled. Off Roger's unsmiling look, he said, "Because you played sports and you're from Jersey…"

"I'm not really," Roger said. "I was born out west, raised there until… I guess until I was about thirteen. That was the last time we started heading East." Mark's hands had moved: they were itching for his camera. _Just don't bring your camera, okay? Just… please, don't._ Roger slid the drawer closed. The open face of his boyfriend was asking for more details.

Roger sighed. He leaned in, and faltered. Was this right? He was only using this to distract Mark; it was sheer manipulation and Roger knew it. And yet he did love Mark, that was certainly no lie. But he _knew_ he loved him. In that moment, Roger knew that but did not feel it. He only felt the nauseous pain of repression.

He forced himself to move the final few inches and captured Mark's lips in a soft kiss.

"Boys, do-- oh!"

Mark and Roger broke apart. "Yes, Mama?"

Mrs. Hobbs half-smiled an apology at her son. "There's lunch, if you're hungry. It's your favorite."

"What's that?" Mark asked, grinning a Cheshire cat grin at Roger.

"It's anything," Roger told him. "As long as it's hot, I love it." He winked. Mark blushed.

MARK

Roger wasn't kidding about loving anything hot. He practically inhaled his mother's stew. He didn't say a word to his stepfather, who sat across the table, but he wasn't speaking much to anyone. Mrs. Hobbs told a story about Roger: "Ever since he was little," she said, "it's always been the same. Roger hates cold food. He always has, since he was a baby. He even lets his ice cream start melting before he eats. Oh, and he hates gazpacho--"

"It's on principle," Roger muttered, and stuffed a spoonful of stew into his mouth. He ate as though he had not eaten in days-- which, well, it was not completely true. We ate, but sparingly. The concept of three hot, full meals a day had grown foreign to us.

I didn't mind it, either.

"So, Mark, what do you do?"

The interrogation. I had been awaiting it since we arrived. "I make films," I replied, because it sounds better than 'I'm a male secretary'. Sometimes I regretted ever leaving BuzzLine. I hated it there, but putting up with the jokes and having greasy, middle-aged men groping my ass whenever they please from nine to five, even BuzzLine was less degrading than that. Roger always told me to quit.

_I walked into the loft, exhausted, my shoulders unable to hold themselves aloft. This job was killing me. It was more than degrading. I tossed my tie into a corner. It was the only one I owned, and if Roger didn't need AZT I would probably burn the thing._

_I collapsed onto the couch. Roger was at my side in under a minute. "Poor Mark." He hugged me, and I began to cry. I usually didn't, but this had been a particularly bad day, because someone actually asked me out and I had the innocence to let slip the fact that I had a boyfriend. Now the female secretaries avoided me and the suits seemed to think 'gay' and 'prostitute' meant the same thing. "Shh. It's okay, baby, it's okay. You're here. You're safe."_

_"Oh, G-d, Roger!" I wished for the billionth time that Roger wasn't sick, but this time it was selfish. This time, I was wishing I didn't have to take this ridiculous job to buy his AZT. "I can't…"_

_"Then you won't. You'll quit."_

_He said it again that night, as we were lying under the covers curled together, shivering against the cold. Roger had me held against his chest, and I had just finished tearfully recounting the events of the day. "You don't have to go back there. You'll quit," he said._

_"I can't, baby, you know that."_

_"You can. It's okay, I'll take extra shifts, I don't mind. Please, Mark."_

_"It isn't usually so bad…" And no way could he tend enough bar to cover heat, rent, food and medicine._

Mrs. Hobbs nodded. "So you're an artist," she said. "I can see how you and Roger get along together. And, Cohen, right? Are you Jewish?"

"Yes. Um, I'm not practicing though, it's more of a... culture... values kind of thing," I explained, and that did nothing to explain. It isn't something I could explain in words, that being Jewish was just something a person _was, _that some Jews keep kosher and some don't even light candles on Shabbat, but Jewish is Jewish. Any group-- cultural, ethnic, whatever-- wants to feel a kinship to its members. Collins once told me that a black student glared at him and eventually dropped his class after learning that he was a leftist. I don't think Jews have that aspect specifically because of our differences, because maybe I'm reform and I eat bacon, and the guy next to me wears a kippah and tzitzit, but we're still the same.

All of this rushed through my head, making my fingers itch for my camera. Maybe I would do a documentary about the variety of practice of Judaism and the nevertheless healthily extant kinship. Would that be cliche?

This happened in half a second. Mrs. Hobbs had started asking another question when there was a knock at the door. She answered it. "Hey, Mrs. Hobbs. Do you have any redfood dye, by any chance, that I could borrow? Anita's baking--"

"I'm not sure that I have any--" she said, then turned to Roger. "Honey, go look, would you?" He left the table. As he walked past me, he stroked my shoulder. I won't pretend I didn't shiver. "You're welcome to borrow whatever I've got..."

With Roger knocking things about in the kitchen and Mrs. Hobbs talking to the woman at the door, I was left alone with Roger's stepfather. I had yet to exchange a word with him since our introduction, but suddenly I felt a compulsion to speak. We were sitting opposite one another, and Roger's abandoned chair was too empty. The crumpled green napkin lying half-off the seat hardly replaced my boyfriend.

"Um... so..." What did I have in common with this man? Sports? Cars? I didn't know anything about sports or cars, except that Roger played sports and we had a crappy car that ran all right. "You were around when Roger was younger?" I asked. Maybe that wasn't such a bright move. The grown son of his wife, the son he did not raise, was probably a sore or at least irritating spot for Reggie Hobbs.

But he answered evenly enough: "He was about fourteen when Maria and I started dating."

"Um... neat." Neat? What the hell?

Luckily I was saved from this conversation by Roger, who returned from the kitchen calling, "You've only got blue--"

"Roger?" That was the visitor. Mrs. Hobbs stepped back, and the visitor stepped into the room. She was a girl, mid-twenties at least, around our age, with long dark hair and chipped pink paint on her nails. "Roger Davis," she said, nodded.

"Oh my G-d. Carlie?" Roger asked. "Carlie!" She threw her arms around him and hugged him; he hugged her back, giving her little swings. "Oh, I missed you!"

She kissed him before pulled away. My throat constricted. Roger was mine, Roger was with me... right? We started together less than a year after Mimi. Was he still mourning? Sure, we cuddled and talked sweet nothings, but Roger was a romantic, he liked that stuff, and he certainly liked sex. I migh be nothing to him, just a warm body who played the way he liked until he found his next girlfriend. After all, I was his first boy. Maybe he only liked girls.

I had had these thoughts before, but had never been so certain of them as I was now.

"I missed you, too," she said. "How are you? How long are you in town?"

"Justfortheweekend," he said, and I could hear him smiling. "You? You're... still living with your mom?"

She shook her head. "Jesus, G-d no! I'm in the neighborhood, though. I'ma teacher, high school. You?"

"Music. In the city."

"Jesus!" she said again. "That's incredible. I'm really proud of you, Roger."

"Oh, and... and this is Mark. This is my boyfriend, Mark." Roger gestured to me. I forced a smile onto my face and waved.

The girl-- Carlie-- smiled. "Hi," she said. "I'm Carlie. Don't worry, Roger and I aren't... we're friends, from high school."

I'm just glad when she takes the blue dye, thanks Mrs. Hobbs and heads back to Anita, whoever that is. I can't pretend the kiss makes me happy, and all I can think of is getting my lips onto his to replace the taste of her. He sat on his napkin and pulled his chair to the table, and went on eating.

He caught me glaring. "She's just a friend," he said.

ROGER

"Just a friend?" Mama repeated. "Oh, you two were so close in high school. They were on the soccer team together. I hardly saw them apart," she told Mark.

Not helping, Mama! I don't understand why she had to go and say that. Mark's angry already. "We played soccer," I said. "Carlie was good. We hung out a lot. That's all." It's not all. I remember meeting her under the bleachers, the way her skin felt. We smoked a few cigarettes, but not many. We both needed our lungs for sports, and she insisted that I save my throat for singing. She had a lot of problems, used to call me at night. _Sing to me. Please sing to me. _And she was there for my problems.

Romance... yes, there was, sort of. Not exactly. We only slept together in the literal sense, taking care of each other. There was no sex-- kissing, masturbating together or each other, but no penetration. Mark would never understand.

After lunch, Mark asked to see more pictures. "Are there any more sports pictures?" he asked, and looked at my mother's albums. "Hey, you didn't say you rode horses," he exclaimed.

"Just for a couple years."

After a while, he asked my mother, "Roger never swam in meets? He said..."

She glanced at me. I nodded. _Tell him, Mama. Tell him why there aren't any pictures._ She said, "That was back in Los Angeles, where it was warm enough to swim all winter. Roger stopped when we moved out here."

True enough.

TO BE CONTINUED

Unless I can think of some kind of filler, there will probably be another two or three chapters on this story. Suggestions or what you want to read could be helpful; I definitely want to have abit more before the climax.


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Jonathan Larson is at least a demig-d.

"Can I wear one of your jerseys to bed?"

Roger did not even turn. He continued folding his shirt. "Go ahead." He stuffed the folded shirt into their duffel bag.

Mark sulked. _So much for enticing him..._ All he wanted was a kind word from Roger, a little gesture, something to promise that his fidelity and love were unquestionable, unshakeable, right. "Which one do you want me in?" he asked, trying again. _Costumes…_

"Uh... I don't care. Whichever you want." Roger pulled back the covers. Apparently undershirt-and-jeans would once more be his pajamas.

"Do you even want me in here?" Mark demanded. Roger turned to him, questioning with a look but no sound. "Your mother offered the couch. I'll be glad to take it if you want to sleep alone."

"Mark..." Roger sighed. He shook his head. "If you don't want to be with me, or... if you need some space from me..." There were no words to complete that sentiment. Roger could make no promise that he would not be hurt or that he would behave admirably. He would be distraught, bereft, furious. But he would accept it, given his time. He shook his head once more. "Just tell me what you want," he said.

"I want you to say what you want! Do you really want to be with me, or do you want to be with her?" Mark demanded.

Roger's jaw dropped. His mouth formed words, but he did not speak aloud. He shook his head. At last he managed, "I can't believe... _Carlie?_ You think I would leave you for _Carlie_? Mark... what can I say? She's a friend. What will make you believe that I love you?" He sighed. _How can you doubt that? How can you doubt me, after everything?_ But Mark had never seen Roger's doubt. Roger knew that. He knew from a conversation he once overheard when he woke, momentarily roused from his drunken wandering.

"I dunno whadI'ddo wifout him, Collins... I gotta have Roger b'cause... b'cause... b'cause he knows what he's doingf, Collins. 'Cause I dunno. But Roger knows. He gots this confindence..."

"No more for you, Mark."

"No... More for Mark! One more, 'm naw drunk ye'..."

"Yes you are. Come on. Let's get you to bed."

"But it's gotsta be Roger, Collins. Tha's whad I love abou 'im. He dusn't never has a question about whats to do."

And yes, Mark had been drunk off his grammar, but Roger knew that Mark meant what he said, so he asked, "How about, 'Put on my basketball jersey, turn off the lights, and come to bed'?"

Mark smiled. "That'll do," he said, and complied as Roger settled himself between the sheets. Mark set his glasses on the bookshelf, kicked off his khakis in the dark and stumbled to bed, where Roger drew the covers over him and cuddled him. Mark smiled. He ran his foot along the inside of Roger's leg. "You know, this is a lot sexier when you aren't wearing jeans," he said.

Roger laughed. He rested his hand on Mark's back, his fingers spread apart. "Why chase what's already yours?" he asked.

"Yeah, but…" Mark shifted to press closer against Roger and tilted his head to keep from muffling his words. "I want to make you happy," he said. "Happy" was Mark's codeword for "orgasm". Sometimes it meant just that, happy, but its second meaning was sex.

"Mark…" Roger tried to flirt, but as his hand smoothed the netted jersey over Mark's back, Roger felt his testicles shrink. Mark could probably physically force an orgasm on him, but Roger would be psychologically unable to enjoy it, and he knew that. "I'm not in the mood. If you really want me to, I can do you." He forced his hands to creep lower, towards Mark's y-fronts.

Mark snapped, though he tried not to snap, "I wouldn't force you." He rolled over.

"Mark…"

"Leave it alone, Roger."

Roger closed his eyes and tried to imagine how he possibly could. Other than their physical closeness, he had not spent a day without seeing Mark in months. Their fights had been matters of, 'No, you do the laundry', nothing serious. What was Roger expected to leave alone? That Mark couldn't see how badly he needed him? That Mark just shut him out, as though when they went to visit the Cohens Mark was Mister Merry Sunshine?

Roger climbed over Mark. "Where are you going?" Mark asked.

"Bathroom."

Maybe the walk could ease this knot of emotional pain in his gut. Actually… maybe that wasn't emotional pain…

As angry as he was-- at being shunned, at his boyfriend's sudden distance, at the fact that Roger was probably thinking about a woman while Mark was here wearing his clothes-- Mark immediately sat up when he heard the sound of vomiting. Any semblance of sleep was shaken off as he stumble-ran across the hallway, acting on the impulse that had not faded with Roger's lust for smack.

Roger was on his knees, coughing vomit into the toilet. "Oh, G-d." Mark soaked some towels in the sink and knelt by Roger. "What happened?" he asked. He held Roger's shoulders and stroked his hair, just like always. "Are you sick, baby?" Mark asked. Roger said nothing: he was hurling again. They went through the motions, just as they always had, but the difference was that this time they had fought. This time, as gently as he touched Roger, part of Mark was ready to hurt him, especially when he realized-- "Roger, you didn't do this to yourself, did you, baby?"

Roger shook his head. "No, I just… just ate too much," he stammered.

"Roger Michael Davis!" A bright light flared on, and Roger's mother stood in the doorway wearing a bathrobe with slippers in the pocket. She grabbed his chin and forced him to look at her, not a wise move given his recent actions. "Have you been drinking?"

"Mama," Roger whimpered, "I'm twenty-six years old. And no, I have not been drinking."

Mark stroked Roger's hair. "He's just ill, Mrs. Hobbs. Jeez, he's only your son," he murmured. Roger tried to say something, but the words disappeared as he was sick once more.

This time, Mrs. Hobbs seemed to realize what was happening. "Oh, Roger, I'm sorry, honey." She knelt on his other side and petted him. Mark frowned, momentarily angry that _anyone_ should pet Roger. That was his right and his alone! Before Mark could realize how silly his envy was, Roger squeezed his hand. He raised his eyes to meet Mark's, gave a wan smiled, and mouthed something Mark did not catch.

---

"I'm sorry, Mark."

The two Bohemians were lying together in Roger's bed. Mark had Roger's too-thin, trembling form clutched to his chest. It was early morning now; the sky was deep blue, but a few birds were out, chirping too brightly.

"Mark? Did you--"

"Shh," Mark interrupted. He rubbed Roger's back, irked by the protruding ridges of his spine. Roger was definitely not eating enough, especially for an ill man. "It's okay, baby." His voice was tired.

Roger squeezed his eyes shut. "I know you wanted me to…" he trailed off and allowed his hand to trail towards Mark's groin.

Mark grabbed Roger's hand. "Roger! Roger, I don't care. I'm much more concerned about your health."

Roger smiled and snuggled closer. "Love you, Mark. And you do look especially sexy in my jersey."

Mark grinned.

TO BE CONTINUED!

And I'm back!

Please review?


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: It's Jonathan's. I'm just playing, all respect intended.

When Mark stepped into the kitchen later that morning, Roger was on the telephone. He glanced at Mark and muttered, "Okay, I have to go. 'Bye." Then he hung up. Mark fought a glower, sure that Roger had been speaking to that girl again. He gritted his teeth and wondered what had possessed him to wear Roger's clothes instead of his own, especially as Roger asked, "A-are you… wearing my shirt? And my pants?"

"Um…"

Roger's face twisted momentarily, then he forced a smile and said, "Those jeans are too long for you, but I still think you look sexy in the jersey." He leaned in to kiss Mark. "Sexier when your nipples are showing," he whispered before pulling away. Mark shivered. "Oatmeal? Dry toast? Breakfast of champions!"

"How are you so cheerful?" Mark demanded.

"Because," Roger said, grinning evilly, "my mom and Reggie are at church. We have the entire house to ourselves." Catching on to Roger's thought process, Mark smiled. "And you know," Roger continued, sucking oatmeal off a wooden spoon, "their shower…" He snickered. "So do you want to?"

"You have to ask?"

Roger smiled. "Good. Oh, but first, we have a guest coming for breakfast. Hey, Carlie!"

Their guest had appeared in the kitchen, stepping in through the back door as though she belonged there. "'Morning, Roger." They hugged. "Good morning, Mark."

"Hey," Mark said weakly. Roger had been spot-on with that shower idea, but suddenly Mark was too angry to be interested. "Roger, I don't think you should be eating too much," Mark admonished. "You just finished throwing up--"

Roger nodded. "I know," he said. "Safe foods." They were bland of color, bland of taste, but filling and unlikely to make him sick again. He poured the oatmeal into a bowl as Carlie began setting the table. Mark felt his face flush furiously. _Dammit, Roger, I'm your boyfriend. And a guest. You should be making me feel comfortable, not emphasizing the fact that I don't belong here!_

"Are you all right?" Carlie asked Roger. "If you're sick--"

_He's always sick,_ Mark thought bitterly. _He has HIV, but you don't know that because you're from a different life. This Roger doesn't belong to you, he belongs to _me. "Rog, did you take your pills?" Mark asked.

"You know I did." Roger knelt to pull toast out of the oven. "Why don't you sit down?" he asked Mark. "Both of you. I just need a few minutes--"

"I'll help," Mark and Carlie volunteered together. Mark glared at Carlie; she ignored him and took dishes over to the table. Mark bit his lip. _What am I supposed to do?_ She knew the run of the house; he didn't. This was as much Carlie's turf as it was Roger's, and completely foreign to Mark. He felt an illogical rush of tears.

"Hey." Roger rubbed himself against Mark, giving him a one-armed hug. "You okay, babe?"

Mark nodded. "I'm fine," he lied. Roger kissed him and finished setting out breakfast. He sat; Mark quickly sat beside Roger, ensuring that Carlie would be as distant from him as possible. Unfortunately, this meant that Mark was sitting beside Carlie.

She managed five minutes' polite conversation, asking Mark and Roger questions, ignoring gibes and glares. "So," she asked after a moment, "um, if this isn't too personal a question, how did you know you were gay? I mean you obviously didn't know back in high school…"

Mark glared. "I wouldn't say that I'm gay," Roger answered, laughing as he spread jam across his toast. "It's more that I'm in love with Mark."

"Love is blind," Carlie retorted, equally amused, her tone light. She, too, had a piece of toast, spread with butter and jam. Only Mark had a deep, churning illness in his stomach, making it impossible for him to swallow food. He wondered how the oatmeal felt. No one was eating any oatmeal. Uncertain why, he spooned a mass of the stuff onto his plate.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Mark demanded. He knew his looks weren't exactly stellar, but he was far from hideous. Or did she find something funny in homosexuality? Was being queer some big joke to her? He had almost been disowned for it.

Carlie gave him a sideways look. "Well, first it's funny because you're a cameraman," she said. Mark's blood boiled. Was there anything Roger _hadn't_ told this girl? "Then it's a cliché, and it's funny because it's both a cliché and applicable, thoroughly defiant of the confines of the definition." Roger was grinning. "Finally it's funny because when Roger and I fooled around, part of the game was a blindfold."

Roger could not stop smiling. _Good girl, Carl!_ She was everything he remembered, everything he had hoped. And he could not stop feeling triumphant for both of them for succeeded in her success.

Mark blanched. Whatever he had been expecting, that was not it. "You're laughing about how you fucked your ex?" he asked

"Mark!"

Carlie said, "Actually, we never 'fucked', we just fooled around a little. It's not like he's your first, either."

Mark's face turned bright red. He spluttered a moment; his face contorted before he managed, "My sexual history is none of your fucking business!"

"Mark," Roger appealed, but Mark was well beyond listening.

With a proud calm, Carlie told him, "If it wasn't true, you wouldn't be so angry. And I don't see why you're angry at all. There is no reason to expect virginity when life is an accepted buffet of try-it-again romance is a search for the right fit which may be love."

Mark knew he was going to scream. He knew, because his glasses had fogged. Before he could open his mouth, Roger grabbed his hand. "Hey," he said, in an ironic shift of roles. "Calm down, guys."

Carlie pushed her chair back. "I think I should go," she said. She stood. "Um, before I do, you should know-- Mark, Roger asked me to come here today to talk to you. He was trying to make things better, okay?" Suddenly the room was impossibly quiet without their shouting voices. Carlie barely whispered.

If Mark had been thinking, he would not have retorted as he did. If he had been thinking, he would have seen how his answer hurt Roger far more than it stung Carlie. "Yeah," he said. "Well, you didn't. You made things worse."

Carlie shrugged. "Sure looks that way," she admitted. "I'm really sorry, Roger."

She left the room. Mark and Roger sat still as the door banged shut. Through the window they saw Carlie jog across the street. Mark ignored her. Roger could not bring himself to watch, but he saw her paused to look over her shoulder and shoot him the briefest, bitterest ILY. Then she sprinted up the walk and back into her mother's house.

Roger stood and began clearing the plates. For a while, Mark remained still. He said nothing as Roger took away his uneaten, unwanted breakfast. In the kitchen, the sink faucet hissed to life. Dishes clacked together as Roger scrubbed them. Time wore on, and the events of the morning did not change.

Mark forced himself to stand. Roger only knew that Mark had moved when he noticed his reflection in the kitchen window. They stood in silence until Mark asked, "Is there something you want to say to me, Roger?"

Roger turned off the faucet. He turned to face Mark and slowly wiped his soapy hands on his jeans. "Why?" he asked. "Why would you do that?"

"Why would _I_?" Mark asked, incredulous. "You… why would you?" he echoed. "What were you thinking?"

"That maybe for once you had been fucking honest with me!"

Mark took a step back, astounded. He had heard cruelty from Roger, barbs aimed to hurt, but this shouting was new. Roger's previous shouts had been pain, or anger at the pain, but never anger at Mark. Roger, too, was surprised. He sighed, disgusted with himself as much as with Mark. "Forget it," he said, "just forget it. We're… we're driving home tonight, until then we'll just… just wait it out." He sniffled and swiped at his eyes. "I need to finish the dishes. Do whatever you want."

Mark left the room, and Roger could not say where he went.

ROGER

And the worst, the absolute worst, was that if I wanted to keep Mark as my boyfriend-- and I did, else why would I have braved Jersey again?--I would have to blame Carlie or myself, and I couldn't. I could not fault myself for trying to bring Mark the best part of my past. I could not fault Carlie, the one of us who turned out well and whole and admirable. I could not fault her for holding her own.

I took a deep breath to calm myself. I took another, and another, and put my fist through the kitchen window.

TO BE CONTINUED

ILY-- 'I love you' in American sign language (form a fist, then lift your thumb, pinkie and pointer. This is the letters I, L, and Y, and it means 'I love you'. You're probably familiar with it.)

Reviews would be very much appreciated! ... please?


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: They're Jonathan's. I'm just playing.

WARNING: SEX. It's not graphic, but if nipples and asses and orgasms make you uncomfortable, skip from "fucker" to "Love you, Mark." It's marked, for those of you who don't like it.

ROGER

If I had been quicker, or Mark woke earlier, or I held my temper in check: in any number of situations, I never would have told my mother.

"Oh, yeah, Mama, I'm not just a fag, I'm an AIDS spreading, smack-shooting gadabout!"

No mother needs to hear that about her only son. And it was wrong for so many reasons. I no longer skinpopped or even chased. Heroin was completely gone from my life. I did not spread AIDS. Maybe to April-- my stomach clenched and I grasped the sink to stay upright-- but no more. I never said 'fag' and nobody had said 'gadabout' since Jay Gatsby was shot.

Nevertheless, that was how Mama would see it, and who could blame her?

In coming to Jersey, I meant in so many ways not to bring the past and present together. I would not become that angry teenage boy again. I would not tell my mother what had happened to me since I moved out. I would not, I would not, I would not, and all of it thoroughly futile, because I did.

"Roger? What happened, honey?"

Mama rushed to lift my hand, but I stepped back. "No, don't--!" I certainly no longer loved her, not after what she did, but killing her… The snap had wounded her. "I… uh… we should talk. Let me get cleaned up. Just-- just keep away right now, okay?"

"O-okay, Roger."

Great. Fucking perfect! Not only had I isolated my boyfriend, probably ex-boyfriend, I had terrified my mother. She backed out of the kitchen, leaving me free to gather up the shards of glass and pick out the fragments that had lodged in my knuckles. None of my blood had dripped into the sink; some had spattered the kitchen counter. I wiped it off, then drenched the area in bleach.

I plastered my knuckles with Band-Aids. Mama whined softly when she saw my hand; I flinched. "It's okay," I told her. "I, um… I'm sorry I yelled."

She nodded. "That's all right, honey."

Her voice was too high, too carefully measured. "Mama, I need to tell you something."

The few times that I did imagine breaking this news to my mother, I imagined it with Mark. Mark would be right there by my side, holding my hand and reassuring me that it was okay. I never imagined being alone. I never imagined being so freshly, rawly and completely alone.

She nodded once more. "I'm listening," she said, and I knew she had not truly understood a word.

"Mama, I have HIV."

She said nothing. For a long few seconds we sat together in silence, at the same table at which Mark and I sat earlier. My mother did not only remain silent, she did not move. She stared straight ahead until she had to blink. The movement woke her from her trance. "I'm sorry," she said. "What was that, Roger?"

My throat constricted. I could only say it so many times, and already I felt sick. I leaned forward, resting on the table the weight that my muscles could not bear. "Mama, I'm HIV positive," I said. "These pills…" I reached into my jacket pocket and withdrew the orange plastic bottle. "These are AZT pills. They're… keeping me alive, Mama."

She tossed her head. "Well," she said. "Excuse me." She pushed back her chair and hurried into the kitchen.

I rose and followed her. "Mama?" I asked.

It hurt, I won't pretend it didn't. You never get used to being walked out on. You try, time and again, when you've seen too many unable to endure it. You try to harden your heart because of what happened when you were small, because where's your daddy now, because April was so selfish and Angel was beaten down and Mimi…

You try not to hurt. You try. You can't do it, because hardening your heart is such a lie. It's pain to maintain. It's impossible to shut out Collins. I never bothered trying, because there is something warm and true in his touch, something piercing in his eyes reminding me that he knows everything, so it's no good lying. I even tried shutting out Mark at various times, mostly after April, but his constant, brave nagging cut too deep.

Even so, a strength can grow like callus. And a mother can tear that down.

"Mama--"

She struck me across the face. "What is _wrong_ with you?" she demanded. I said nothing. What was there to say? I just stood, letting my head remain as it had snapped to the side with the impact of her open palm. She trembled. "Did you get it from _him_, Roger?" Now Mama caressed me. "Did that boy do this to you?" she asked.

I shook my head. "Mark's clean," I told her.

"Then how, Roger?" she asked. "Was it… was it _drugs_?" She hardly whispered the last word, hardly dared say it. Saying it might make it real.

I nodded. "I'm sorry, Mama."

"Oh!" she gasped, her eyes wide. Then she smacked me again. "You _idiot_, Roger! Roger Michael Davis, what do you have to say for yourself?" Nothing. I had nothing. "I… I have half a mind, Roger, to tan your sorry ass! Go to your room."

"Mama--"

"Go."

"I'm not a child anymore, Mama!"

She hissed out an angry breath. "You are as long as you are under this roof," she said. And she began to make good on her word. Before I had half a chance to think, time enough to make a choice, my mother had me by the scruff of the neck to hold me in place as she actually spanked me.

"Jesus, Mama!" She was hurting me. Aside from the humiliation of being twenty-six years old and being spanked by my mother as I had not been since I was twelve-- and then she usually left the dirty work to her boyfriend-- she was _strong!_ "Cut it out!"

"You stupid, stupid fool!" she shouted. "_Drugs_, Roger? Drugs! I raised you better!"

I thought we were alone in the house until I heard from behind me, "Maria?" Mama turned, relaxing her grip on my neck. I pulled away from her. "What's going on?" Reggie asked.

"Oh, G-d…" Mama wailed, and she dissolved.

"Maybe you'd better lay low for a while," Reggie told me.

Mama added, "Go to your room, Roger." At that moment, there was nowhere I could think of I would rather be.

MARK

Dear stupid book, I hate you. I hate it here. I hate everything.

Mama gave me this book. "Oh, it'll help you sort out your feelings." I wanted to take judo. Why? Because I want to be safe. I want to be able to defend myself next time. Because I don't need to sort my feelings, because I don't have but a single one and it's this: I hate everything.

I hate Mama. Mama's co-dependent. She doesn't know who she is without a man. She only cares about herself, not about me or anybody else.

I hate New Jersey. It's boring. Just plain boring, nothing else to be said. Stupid old Jersey. It's probably a pleasant 75 degrees back home, but it's fucking snowing out my fucking window, and that stupid girl next door is out in it.

I hate the girl next door.

Opening Roger's notebook was a blatant invasion of his privacy, in the same way filming him during his withdrawal was a blatant invasion of his privacy, and I was not about to inform him of either, especially not now, not with him and his mother in the kitchen screeching to bust G-d's ears. No, I sat quietly at my maybe-ex-boyfriend's desk and opened what had, at one time, been a diary. Perhaps the composition book could make some sense of him.

I wanted more than Roger. I wanted to understand-- half because when I did, I knew I would be able to love him again. The journal, to my vast frustration, offered no hint of the truth, only allusions, and now it talked about Carlie. He said he hated her, but he talked about her. It was enough to upset me.

Roger came into the room before I could hide the notebook. My face flushed: I was caught red-handed. Roger didn't care. He did not even see me, just collapsed onto his bed. He pulled a pillow against his chest and curled up tightly, whimpering. He sucked on two knuckles.

"Rog?" It is almost amusing how a chance of circumstance can change an emotion. My anger evaporated. I went to the bed and knelt beside him. "Hey, baby." I brushed tears off his face, for all the good it did. He replaced them diligently. "What happened?"

Roger raised his hand. It was coated with bandages. "Poor baby." I kissed the Band-Aids. "Oh, my poor Roger." He smiled at me and pushed away the last of his tears. "Oh." Still holding his injured hand with one of mine, I traced my fingertips across his face. I smiled at him. "There he is. Hey, Roger."

"I told her," he said.

My heart froze. "Told…"

"My mother."

"Oh!" I breathed again.

"About AIDS. And drugs."

I winced. If I ever did anything so stupid, I highly doubt I would admit it to my mother. I might kill myself instead. "How did she take it?"

"She spanked me."

"She…" Before I knew what was happening, a giggle burst through my lips. "Oh, G-d." I couldn't help myself. I laughed. "Oh, poor Roger… spanked you…"

"Oh, shut up, Mark."

"I'm sorry, baby," I insisted through giggles. "I'm sorry. It's just… _spanked you…_"

"Fucker."

(sex scene)

Roger rolled onto his side, facing away from me. I pouted. "I'm sorry, baby. It's upsetting. It is." I stroked his ass. "I don't want anyone but me touching this. Believe me." I groped, and for a while he allowed me. It was nice. I hadn't touched my boyfriend, at least not like this, in a while. He squirmed.

"Tha's nice, Mark…"

Damn right. I straddled Roger and pulled him onto his back. As I began to unbutton his jeans, he told me to wait. I did, furiously impatient. "What is it this time?" I demanded.

"The door's open," Roger said. "And I'm not wearing a condom."

I leaned down to kiss him, but paused an inch from his lips. Without a coherent thought, I turned and licked his jaw. Roger trembled and moaned. I am damn good and he knows it. "I'll get the door," I whispered, and shoved a condom into his hand before hopping off the bed.

I was kneeling above him when he asked me again to wait. "Take your shirt off," he said. His voice was a bit higher than usual, his breath shorter, and he needed a tremendous effort to speak at all.

"Don't you mean, take _your_ shirt off?" I asked, stripped Roger's jersey over my head. I had not exactly loved wearing it, I admit, but it staved off the cold now rippling across my chest. Roger sat up and began sucking my left nipple. I enjoyed that, the warm steadiness of his hands on my back, but as a moan tore from my throat I realized--

"No." I pushed Roger away. He looked up at me, confused, a kicked-puppy expression on his face. I smirked. "I'm doing you," I reminded him.

The last of my anger with Roger, I worked out through sex. I tortured him. Roger's hands sought hold on my back, pressing with his guitarist's fingers hard into muscle and flesh. His foot scrabbled, pushing at the sheets. I am damn good in bed and I know it. I kept him on the brink of orgasm for as long as I could, and Roger all but screamed. He begged me.

After, he pulled me down next to him. His chest was heaving with each breath and sweat dampened his shirt. "Jesus Christ," he said. "Mark. Woah."

After fellating me, Roger liked to touch me. He liked to stay in our dark bedroom, his hands tracing every curve of my body, making me shiver as he cupped my ass and brushed my nipples, always so painfully gentle, treating me like some precious work of art. When we began a night in that way, he would taste and suck, everywhere.

(/sex scene)

But now he was helpless. I pulled his head down against my bare chest and stroked his hair.

"Love you, Mark."

I love me, too.

"Mark?"

"Hm?"

"Would you be angry if I slept now?"

Oh! Of course, Roger had barely slept last night, too busy throwing up. I caught up on my sleep that morning, but he was up with the sun. "No, baby. Go to sleep."

"Mark?"

"What is it, Roger?"

He pressed gently, his hair tickling my chest. "Sing to me."

TO BE CONTINUED

Reviews would be better than a naked Roger in my bed. Well, okay, not _that_ good...

Oh! And I am going to update 'Last Year'. I'm getting there.


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer: RENT is Jonathan Larson's. I'm just playin'.

Roger awoke to a dark room and a sleepy thickness in his mouth. He rubbed his eyes. _What time is it…?_ There was no clock in his bedroom, but the sun had set. "Jesus." He forced himself to stand. Something felt strange, wrong, not the sleepy heaviness to his body but-- "Oh." Roger chuckled. Somehow the condom had manage not to slip off completely, though he had been purely negligent not to dispose of it earlier.

"G-d," he said, shaking his head with laughter as he tied off and tossed out the condom. He buttoned his jeans and found an old sweater that still fit him.

From down the hall, Roger heard voices. He headed towards them, stumbling through the dark. Everything felt so dreamy, thick and slow. Mark sat at the table with his mother, looking at an old photograph album. "…in, um, must have been second grade," Mrs. Hobbs was saying.

Roger peered at the picture over Mark's shoulder. "Oh," he said. It was a picture from his eighth birthday, gap-toothed Roger wearing a silly conical hat with a group of equally gappy, grinning boys around him. There was a birthday cake in front of him, candles still lit.

"Roger!" Mrs. Hobbs looked at her son. "Um… why don't you sit down?" she asked. "Are you hungry, honey?"

Roger shook his head. "I'm not hungry," he mumbled, sitting beside Mark.

"You okay?" Mark asked.

"Just tired," Roger assured him.

"Do you mind…?" he asked, indicating the photograph album.

Roger shook his head. "No, go ahead," he said.

"Where's this?"

It was a little white house with a porch, a brick path through and a tire swing on the patch of grass that served as a lawn. "That's… we lived there," Mrs. Hobbs said. Her voice was stretched thin.

Mark seemed not to notice. "Is it here in Jersey?" he asked.

"No," Mrs. Hobbs said. Roger raised his eyes, squinting. How did Mark not hear how strained her tone was? And yet, it did not bother him that Mark persisted. "It's… it's in the San Fernando Valley. Still there, for all I know. We left when Roger was thirteen."

It was a natural question, yet it clearly made Mrs. Hobbs uncomfortable: "Why did you leave?"

Roger's eyes were fixed on his mother. "Things there just weren't working out," she said.

Mark nodded. "It must have been tough," he said, "for a single mother with a teenage son. I can't imagine it was ever easy for you." An uncomfortable blush burned across the back of Roger's neck as Mrs. Hobbs nodded. _What are you doing?_ What was Mark up to, trying to form an alliance with his mother? What was _happening_ here? Then Mark asked another question, and Roger understood: "What happened to Roger's father?"

Mrs. Hobbs turned to the next page in the album. "You know," she said, "I could have sworn I had some pictures here from some of the shows Roger did--"

"Mama," Roger interrupted. "Tell him."

She looked at him sadly and pursed her lips. "Roger--"

"Tell him," he said, his voice rising. "Tell him about Daddy, tell him why we left the valley."

Mark's eyes widened behind his glasses. He grabbed Roger's hand. "It's okay, baby," he whispered. But Roger could not hear him. He was watching his mother intently, daring her to tell the truth.

"It's in the past now," Mrs. Hobbs said.

Roger shook his head. "No," he growled. He stood, jerking his hand away from Mark's. "You're lying. Where are the pictures? You kept them, I know you did, where are they?"

"Roger," Mrs. Hobbs said, trying vainly to calm him. "Roger, we left that behind--"

"No, you didn't!" Roger cried. "You didn't or why can't you talk about it, Mama? I know you kept them. I know you kept the pictures, Mama! Where are they?"

"Roger, you're shouting--"

With a groan of disgust, Roger turned away. He stormed into the living room. "They're here," he said. "I know they're here." He opened the ornamental box on the mantel. He pulled the cushions off the couch and checked beneath it, opened the coffee table books and leafed through them, all the while ignoring his mother's pleas to stop, think about this for a moment. When he did stop, he took the trembling woman by the shoulders and asked her, his face not inches from hers, "Where are they, Mama? Where are the pictures?"

He barely whispered the words, but she cowered away, shaking her head. "No, Roger…"

"Roger!" Exactly how much of this Reggie had seen, none could say, but he had, apparently, decided that he had seen enough. "That'll do, Roger."

Roger shook his head. "No," he said. "Christ. What does he think, Mama? Does he think he's your first husband? Your first boyfriend after Daddy?"

Mrs. Hobbs began to cry, silent tears slipping down her cheeks. "Roger," she pleaded, "don't do this."

"I have to, Mama! I have to… I… where?" he asked. His lips had gone dry; he licked them, but it did no good. "Just tell me where the pictures are--"

"Roger, stop this--"

"You stay out of it!" he snapped at Reggie. "It doesn't concern you!"

"It does concern me, Roger. You're a sick kid, you always were, but if you don't stop this right now I will kick you out of this house!"

"I'm already gone! Just tell me where the pictures are--"

Mrs. Hobbs appealed, "Roger-- Roger, honey… none of it happened. Huh?" She stroked his cheek. Roger lowered his head, and Mrs. Hobbs smiled. "It didn't happen," she insisted gently.

"None of it--"

"None," she echoed. Her voice had softened to sound, Mark thought, exactly as a mother ought. Mark, who sat at the table through Roger's outburst, too terrified to speak, now began to relax as Roger's shoulders trembled. "It didn't happen. It was all… just a bad dream."

"A bad dream?" Roger pulled away. He shook his head. "No, it wasn't, Mama! He-- _they_--"

"No. He didn't exist," Mrs. Hobbs insisted, following her son as he stepped away from her.

Something burst within Roger. He began to cry. "_He tried to fuck me, Mama!_ You're telling me that didn't exist? He tried… he…"

Mrs. Hobbs stepped forward. She was at least a foot shorter than her son and weakened by age, but she pulled his head easily to her shoulder. "It's okay," she whispered. She stroked his hair, flattening the wild curls that never had and never would obey her. "It's okay, Roger. It's okay."

"It's not okay!" Once more Roger tore out of her grasp. He looked around the room at all the destruction he had caused, at the strewn books and cushions and knicknacks.

"Fuck!"

He spun and burst his foot through a chest. Mark had seen some of the drawers opened as Roger withdrew napkins to set the table. Mrs. Hobbs shrieked. Reggie began to shout at Roger, but the sound died on his lips as Roger fell to his knees and tore chunks of thin wood off the chest. Photographs spilled out.

Panting, Roger shoved them around until he found the one he wanted. "Here!" He stood and thrust the photograph at his mother. "Tell them about Ken, Mama!" He picked up another photograph. "Tell them about Daddy! Tell them, Mama, or you're the same weak coward you always have been." He held out the pictures, trembling, chest heaving with exertion and hope that his mother would, finally, do the right thing.

"Roger… I…"

"Forget it," he spat. He dropped the photographs at her feet and stormed out of the house.

TO BE CONTINUED!

It's not over yet... nor is it supposed to make sense completely. Next chapter...

Reviews would be awesome!


	11. Chapter 11

Disclaimer: Obviously, not mine!

This chapter is dedicated to Cherry Owens for being the first person to ask me out to fight on the internet and Camisado006 for being the first person to ever propose marriage to my writing. For the record I have been a ringbearer before, at a lesbian wedding about two years ago.

MARK

I left because I knew it was right, not because I was moved to do it but because I recognized it as the right course and did it because I knew I should been inclined to-- though I wasn't. Outside was a rush of cold; briefly, as gooseflesh rose on my arms, the worlds merged, Mrs. Hobbs' quiet sobbing mixed with the disturbing quiet of the Jersey suburb.

Roger sat on the steps, his back to me. He was shivering at strange intervals and peeling the paint off the rail supports. I sat beside him. "Roger?" I asked, gently rubbing his shoulder. Did the contact bother him? Honestly his furious revelation had no shocked me as it should have, only left me slightly numb, as though the drama I had so recently seen played out was only that, only a drama, a scene.

But I touched him, and only then did I realize why his shivers were uneven: some were sobs. "Shh, shh." I had never before seen Roger cry for himself, only for pain and for others. When he cried for Angel, no one but me knows, he began to cry only after watching Collins for a moment and seeing what was happening to him. Roger cried over Mimi, though never for April, and once during withdrawal. Save these three instances, I had never seen him cry.

I had never seen him cry like this. He had been angry, fought, pushed me away. During withdrawal he shouted at me to get _out_, leave him _alone_, don't look at him like this, forced me to leave the room so he could cough up vomit without anyone seeing. Now he pressed against me and allowed me to hold him. "I wasn't ready," he mumbled.

"It's okay. Shh, it's okay. I'm right here, baby." He had grabbed fistfuls of my shirt. I stroked his hair and kissed him. "I'm here, I'm right here, baby."

"Mark… oh, G-d, Mark," he sobbed, struggling to control his breath. Roger cried very quietly, the only noise his huffing breath and the words he forced. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't know…"

After a few moments of this, of letting him talk and silently stroking his hair, I realized that Roger was not apologizing for the drama. He was apologizing for whatever had happened in California. "Roger, that wasn't your fault, baby."

"Oh, G-d, Mark," he repeated, "I didn't _know_!"

He was begging my forgiveness. "Roger, shh, you did nothing wrong. It wasn't your fault, and no one is angry with you."

After he had calmed a little, not enough to release me but enough to have stopped crying, I petted him slowly and asked, "What do you want now? Do you want to go home? Or I can take you to Columbia." It was only, what, six-thirty, Collins probably wouldn't even be stoned.

He looked at me for the first time since leaving the house, peeling his face away from my tear-soaked shirt to say, "I want to talk. I want you to… to know whatever you want. Are you going to leave me now?"

How could Roger even think that? "No."

"I don't think… after tonight, I don't think I can live with it anymore. Not without… not with no one knowing," he told the dusky street.

I picked away strand of hair that had been plastered to his face with tears. "You can tell me, Roger."

It was not an over-generous offer. It was more than a little selfish, because I _wanted_ to know, I _wanted_ to understand. I also wanted Roger to show that he trusted me, that I was his first and only. I regretted the choice quickly.

"My mom has some issues. Whoever she's with, she's totally with. She takes his thoughts-- how she votes, what she eats, what she wears, it's all his opinion. But it's sick. She thinks it's her opinion. She makes it her opinion. It's not too bad when she's with someone like Reggie. He's not a bad guy. But…" Roger shook his head. He was so much calmer now. Tears stole down his cheeks, but they were irrelevant to his words. "It started in Los Angeles. We were going East, gonna go to New York." He laughed. "New York. Didn't make it," he added. "We made it to Taos."

"Taos?"

"Near Santa Fe, actually. Jesus, I'm sorry, I'm telling you my whole fuckin' life story--"

"It's okay. I wanna know."

"Sure?"

"Yeah."

"I started throwing up. Badly. She just drove, drove and drove and she would pull over when she was tired and sleep and tell me to, but… I couldn't. I was so hungry and so sad and I didn't understand… I was eight years old. She would sleep and I would watch the world _outside_, and then I started leaving the car… and I stole some money. I stole money from her wallet while she slept and bought myself a jar of peanut butter at them a.m./p.m. Then I ate it, the entire thing, off my fingers right there in the parking lot.

"I got back to the car… she was awake. And furious. She slammed me into the car and took off. I told her beforehand that I was gonna throw up. She said she didn't care. 'Just don't make a mess of my car.' Well, I did make a mess of it. 'Shit, baby, I thought you were being dramatic.'" Another wry laugh punctured his story. "His name was Max. She met him in the hospital. We lived with him for about a year.

"Then she started sleeping with this writer who was in town for vacation. Older. We went back home with him, moved in straight away even. Mama went back into business. And I really liked this guy. After a while I started calling him 'dad'." I sighed. _Thank G-d, a positive male figure in Roger's life._ Sounds like he was in sore need of one. I regretted it as Roger drew in a lungful of air and said, "And then I turned eleven and he started telling me that 'this is how fathers love their sons' and…" Roger shivered.

"He raped you?" I asked quietly, as though saying it loudly might make it worse, as though anything could make it worse.

"Not at first, no. He… touched me. Inappropriately. I didn't know that it was inappropriate, though, until…" He sighed and looked up at the stars. We saw precious few in New York, but here in Jersey more and more puckered out by the minute. "Mama went to a conference the week before my thirteenth birthday. I came home from practice, he… tried it. Nearly got there."

Roger swiped at his eyes. "Jesus. So he had me against that wall and he got inside me with his fingers but I bit him and kicked him and he let go. It was… he held me down and I was screaming and crying and telling him to stop, but he wouldn't let go."

"Shh. It's okay." I pulled Roger into a hug and he curled against me. I rocked him. It was awkward, but it was motion, and it helped. By that point I heartily regretting inviting Roger to tell me what was wrong, but I did not dare go back on it. I didn't want to hear, but I couldn't hurt him by requesting silence. "You don't have to talk about this."

"I want to," he said, half-whimpering. "Do you mind?"

"No. Of course not, baby."

So he told me. He told me how much it hurt. He told me he locked himself in the bathroom. "He was pounding on the door, first all threats-- 'I'll get you for this, I'm bleeding you little shit!' and then sweet, 'Roger, there's been a misunderstand, come out so we can talk.' And I just sat on the shower floor with the water running and I was holding onto this razor-- I was afraid he would get in. And… I pissed myself. I mean I'm sitting on the floor in the warm water and I'm too confused to cry and it just _happens…_ and I wanted to castrate myself. I had the razor, and I just _hated_ it." It took me a moment to realize that by 'it', Roger meant his penis. "I wanted it _gone_. I didn't, you know that, but I was ready."

And then he told me what happened when his mother returned: "'Roger, come out here right this minute and tell me what's going on!' And I did. I felt so good, I was safe, Mama was there… and I told, I told her tried to have sex in me. She hit me. First on the face, then she spanked me and sent me to my room. Told me I couldn't come out until I had decided to stop trying to make everything so difficult for her.

"A couple months later she walked into the room and there he was with his hand down my pants and the other hand clamped over my mouth, because now I knew to scream. And we left. Took off. Came to Jersey. Oh, G-d, Mark!"

Roger collapsed against me, trembling, unable to stop crying. I wish I could have done something more helpful, anything, even had a coat to protect him against the cold, but I didn't. I rubbed his back and stroked his hair and said what I hoped were soothing things: "Shh, it's okay baby, it's okay, just let it out, you're safe…"

After a while Roger had cried himself out. The door opened and slammed shut behind us just as Roger was pushing away the last of his tears. We turned.

Roger's own mother had not even come out to speak with him. It was Reggie.

"Hey, Roger. Your mom… told me some pretty weighty stuff in there," he said. Roger nodded, and I couldn't help but feel that Roger had told me some pretty weighty stuff out here. "I can't blame you at all if you don't want to come back inside, ever, but I would like it if you did."

"He doesn't have to do what you'd like," I spat.

Roger squeezed my hand. "It's okay," he croaked. Nearly an hour of crying had torn his throat up pretty badly. "It's okay." It was not Reggie I hated, but the man before him, the man who had done this to Roger, and myself. Suddenly I understood why, our first time, when I was purely excited, Roger paused and told me, _Mark… please be gentle with me._ Had I known then, I would not have laughed, kindly as I meant it, as I kissed his cheek and told him I would be.

"It would mean a lot to your mother, Roger, if you came in, even if it's just to say good-bye."

I was ready to tell him to forget her, she never gave a fuck about her son, but Roger nodded. "Okay," he said, and he stood.

TO BE CONTINUED!

Reviews would be excellent!

Oh, and for everyone who enjoyed the mild sex scene last chapter, check out Film and Junk's "The First Time". I'm part of that team and I write all the sex scenes.


	12. Chapter 12

Disclaimer: They're not mine.

ROGER

We spent less than fifteen minutes in the house. I know, because I glanced at the clock as I stepped through the door. My mother was on the couch with her face in her hands, no longer crying. Mama never learned how to cry quietly. When Mama was crying, the whole damn world knew about it.

"Um…" What was I supposed to say? _I'm sorry_? I wasn't. I looked to Mark, and he smiled at me. It was so… so poorly matched. We stood in the living room in the midst of my twisted past, my mother's illness, my… my problems, all spilled over, and he was smiling. It made me feel good.

"We're gonna go now," I told my mother. Reggie gave me a look-- that was not what he wanted me to say. Mama refused to raise her head. "We're going back to the city, Mama."

She nodded. "All right," she said. "Maybe that's for the best," she told the floor.

It was enough. I headed for my room. It was Mark who stopped me, because he had not followed. I looked at him. "Mrs. Dav-- Mrs. Hobbs," he said. And she looked at him. She wouldn't look at me, but she looked at him. "The things in Roger's old room-- we'd like to take some things back to the city, if that's all right." I stared at him. _What are you talking about?_ "Just, you know, Roger's old notebooks and some of his warm clothes and things, um, if that's okay with you?"

Mama nodded. "Yes," she said. "Anything in that room, that's his, you can take it. It's… a good quilt on the bed. Must be cold in the city…"

"Thank you," Mark said.

I had gone numb, maybe from the fact that my own mother could not look at me, maybe because it was too much. It was all too much for me, too much at once. I never spoke about what happened in the valley, not even to my mother. And now… it hurts to be so numb. It hurts to move when all you want is to lie still and stop living, just for a little while.

Mark saw it in my eyes the same moment I realized what I was thinking. He strode across the room and grabbed my hand. "Come on," he said. "We'll get our stuff and go home."

In the bedroom, Mark pushed the door shut and pulled me down on the bed. He held my head, forcing me to look at his eyes. Mark has amazing eyes. From a distance they look blue, just blue, but up close they are so much more, rings and rings of different shades… of the same shade roaring with the waves breaking in my ears. And G-d, all I could think about was how much it hurt and how I wish I was a visual artist and I could draw-- no, paint, Mark's eyes.

"Stay with me," Mark said. "Don't do that again, Roger. Don't do that to me again."

To me.

In spite of the fear in his voice, in spite of the scars, _To me._ _Don't do that to me_. although I knew the awful things I had done, things I pretended to have forgotten because it was too awful that Mark should suffer, pretended--

"You wouldn't stay twice--"

"I would stay forever if you promised me to keep trying. Don't make me do that, Roger."

I swallowed and shook my head. "No. No more. I'm okay, Mark."

"Good."

We packed up the things we had brought as well as anything warm in my room: sweaters, warm shirts, socks, it didn't matter what. As long as it was warm, we took it. When I ran away, I took nothing but the clothes on my back, my guitar and about fifty dollars. As I watched Mark tear apart my room, shoving notebooks and sweatshirts into our bag, I wondered, if I planned it, what would I take?

If I planned it, what would I take? Knowing then what I know now? Knowing then only what I did know? What would I take?

I doubt I would have thought to bring an undershirt. It was lucky I was wearing one, and the thing was damn handy in the summer. I would have thought about sweaters, but I would have brought a warm wool, not something enduring like a sweatshirt. I would have thought of the moment, not the future.

I knelt in the closet, pushed away shoes. "Roger?" Mark asked. I ignored him. The corner carpeting was ripped up. Mama loved carpeting. I didn't. Under the carpet was the usual loose floorboard. Mark stared when I emerged from the closet with a wad of bills. "What…?"

"My savings," I explained. "Probably about a thousand dollars."

His eyes widened. "Are you serious?"

I nodded. "I never went out, just did sport and hung out with Carlie, so I saved my allowance and…" I shrugged. "This'll keep us warm for a while."

They didn't say it was all right to take the toothpaste, but we took it anyway.

Reggie said goodbye and invited us back some time. Mama didn't look up.

Mark insisted on driving home. "Look at your hands," he said. I did. They were trembling. The back seat was down from the first night we were here. We tossed our bags there. "Here." Mark fished up the quilt and dropped it on my lap. "Wrap up with this, you know the heater in this car sucks shit."

Sucks shit? I had never before heard Mark use that term, but I didn't say anything, just wrapped the quilt around my shoulders. "You warm enough?" I asked.

Mark nodded. He had a sweater and his jacket. He would be fine.

He pulled out and negotiated his way out of the suburbs, onto the turnpike. "We'll take a bridge into the city," Mark said. Neither of us had spoken since he started the car.

"I'm sorry."

"Roger, you didn't--"

"No, Mark, _I'm sorry_. I'm sorry for what I did during withdrawal."

"I… thought you had forgotten," he said quietly.

I shook my head. "I knew. I'm sorry."

"That's all right. I did as bad to you. Do you--" Whatever Mark was saying, my stomach interrupted. I blushed. Mark was frowning, not at me because he had his eyes on the road, but he was frowning. "You haven't eaten today," he said.

"I'll eat at home--"

"Yeah, we have broth and stale crackers. Fuck that, we're getting drive-thru."

We didn't, but it felt good to say.

To be continued!

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	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer:** Jonathan Larson created RENT and it's probably now "owned" by a film studio

Roger dropped the duffel bag on the floor the moment he stepped into the loft. "Ooh, it's good to be home," he sighed, tossing himself onto the couch. "It's good to be home," he repeated. His lower back ached from the drive, not to mention to numbness in his rear.

"Roger?" Mark knelt beside the couch and picked strands of hair off Roger's face.

"Hm?"

"Are you… are you gonna be okay?" Mark asked as gently as he knew how.

Roger cracked open his eyes and glanced at Mark. "Oh, yeah." He nodded. "Yeah, I'll be okay."

"Because you know if you ever need to talk about it, or about… about anything--"

Roger interrupted, "I'm okay, Mark. I know what happened to me, I just… have some issue with my mother, that's all."

Mark kissed Roger's cheek. "Okay," he said. "You know I'm always here for you. I love you."

Roger turned and caught Mark's lips in a kiss. They spent a few minutes absorbed in each other, fingers stroking hair and shoulders and backs. Then Mark caught his hands unbuttoning Roger's fly. He froze and looked at Roger, who was looking at him. _Am I moving too fast for you, baby? _

"That'll never work in this position," Roger murmured. He sat upright with his legs tossed over the edge of the couch.

It was just as the boys were beginning to enjoy themselves that they heard, "Oh, shit."

"Fuck!"

Collins walked out of the loft and closed the door, struggling not to laugh. Roger quickly helped Mark stand and pulled up his pants. "Okay, you can come in!" he called.

Collins lost his battle with the giggles. "You gotta warn a guy before you start doing that!" he said.

Roger scowled at him. He pulled Mark down onto his lap and cuddled him. "We didn't know you were here," he retorted sulkily. Mark, enjoying the cuddling, began nuzzling Roger's neck. "Anyway, why are you here? Columbia kick you out?"

"Jackass." Deciding the couch was more than occupied, Collins settled himself in a chair. "I only called you six times. You didn't pick up! I had a Saturday seminar, then Spring Break."

"We haven't been home all weekend," Roger explained. "Mmm, Mark, that's nice…"

"We went to Jersey," Mark added.

"To talk to my parents," Roger concluded. "I don't think my mother will speak to me for a long time. Not that that's a bad thing," he added hastily.

Mark wrapped his arms around Roger and petted his head. "Uh, guys… what's going on?" Collins asked. "Are you going to tell me the entire story here, or just going to move it to the bedroom?"

Roger sighed. He pulled his legs up onto the couch, trying to restore some of the circulation affected by Mark's weight. Mark began to ask if he should get up, but Roger latched onto him and answered that question. He paused. How exactly does one tell such a story? What words could be used?

Roger resolved to simply _say it_, and said, "My mom's boyfriend tried to rape me when I was twelve." Collins was too taken aback at this to speak, so Roger continued, "We haven't ever talked about this, my mother and I, because… well, she pretty much told me not to. But, he had been… um, touching me, for a long time, and he tried to rape me. She didn't believe me."

"Roger…"

"I'm okay," Roger assured them quickly. "I'm fine."

Mark stroked his hair. "You don't have to be," he said softly.

"I know and I appreciate that, but I'm not going to spend my life worrying about what some pervert tried with me fourteen year ago. Now come on! It's Spring Break, what're we gonna do? Catch some cheap tickets to the Parthenon?"

---

All Roger could think of the next morning was getting his coffee. He downed one cup and poured another before falling into a seat at the table. Collins was already there.

"Morning."

"Hey."

"Listen, Rog… are you sure you're all right? You were hitting the bottle pretty hard last night."

And yet, miraculously, no hangover! Roger nodded. "It's not a big deal," he said.

Collins nodded. "If you say so," he said, "but I don't want you to feel like you can't talk about it."

Roger sighed. "Collins, there's nothing to talk about. It happened. It was bad at first, but…" Roger trailed off. He realized, suddenly, "Thomas, do _you_ need to talk about this?"

Collins laughed. "Me?"

"Yeah. I don't care but you're all worked up."

Yeah, Roger. I wanna know who could do that to you, and why, and I want to find that guy and beat the crap out of him. "Nah. I just don't want you to think ignoring this will ensure your fairy tale ending."

Roger smirked. "My fairy tale ending is in the bedroom drooling onto the mattress," he said. "You guys are my family now. Y'know… Maureen is like a crazy sister, Joanne's like a mother, you're… the Japanese grandfather--" Roger ducked a flying piece of Cap'n Crunch.

"Roger, that's the most fucked-up family I've ever heard of."

"I know," Roger said. He downed a gulp of coffee. "I guess that's why I'm so happy."

THE END!

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